


You Terrible Thing

by Hazbian



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Anal Sex, Anti-gravity, Flirting, M/M, Non-Canon Relationship, One Shot, Prostitution, Rough Sex, Sex, Slash, Sorry Vivzie, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Stripping, radiodust - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:34:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25150036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hazbian/pseuds/Hazbian
Summary: In a slight deviation from the canon, Alastor spies an interesting somebody in the course of a business deal, and they find a secluded spot to play. ...and then more stuff happens.This was a quick little AlastorxAngelDust one-shot, but enough people requested a smutty sequel chapter, so I have now included... that. If you don't feel comfortable with graphic depictions of sexytimes, I would suggest not reading Chapter 2. Thanks to everyone for their encouragements with this endeavor, and I hope you enjoy!Here's the full-sized cover image: https://twitter.com/hazbian1/status/1276413450181320705?s=21
Relationships: Alastor/Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 155





	1. Chapter 1

Alastor was a man who was happy when he repressed his baser instincts. Not because he was ashamed, but because the tension was so wonderful: that feeling of wanting to act, choosing not to, and wondering later how it might have been.

Tonight he was doing business with Husker, in a strip club on the city outskirts. Mixed gathering, mostly Romanian, and the music reflected this. Lowlights everywhere, neon chasing its way around the glass tumblers and outlining every leather chair and couch. It was 1:30am. A couple of hypes and inebriates sat hunched over the bar, as more pathetic sinners crowded the stage to watch leggy dancers twirl around and around.

Alastor stayed close to Husk, who would be translating for Smokey for the duration of the deal. Years of bar-tending and competing in poker tournaments had made Husk fluent in some ten or twelve languages. They picked a table and ordered drinks. Sitting opposite were two demons in ill-tailored suits, too small. Perhaps it was on purpose, to appear larger and more intimidating; if so, they must not have known who they were dealing with. Alastor was unimpressed. Dealers were meant to comport themselves with some class; had these two no respect for tradition?

Smokey, the taller and more powerful of the two, made an apologetic remark.

“He says sorry Tomáš couldn’t be here,” growled Husk. “Unavoidable.”

“Fine.”

They dispensed with small talk and got straight into the deal. It would have been quick and painless, but the other man, Hris, the one handing over their briefcase, beckoned a waitress and requested a song for the DJ. She obliged, walking away with his already-empty glass. A minute later, this damned imbecile began bouncing in his seat to the tune of some abhorrent song about making it rain.

“You’ll throw the ladies a tip, I assume,” Alastor said. “Be hypocritical not to.”

“Later,” Hris said, and he lit a cigar. “Fucking Al and his etiquette, eh, Husk? It’s freaking adorable.”

Eventually, they swapped cases, and the men got up, abandoning the table. Husk complained of them in a low, barely audible grumble, and whatever he was saying, Alastor agreed. Coming to the other side of the table, Alastor watched his friend double-check the contents of their briefcase.

“Chase after them,” Alastor said. “It’s quicker.”

“What?”

“As long as they haven’t cheated us, they should have no reason to run. And if they do run, of course…”

“Gotcha.”

Alastor’s attention was taken up by the arrival of a new dancer in a skin-tight silver leotard and bolero. Extremely tall, taller than any lady he’d ever seen. Covered in downy fluff, and scantily clad to better flaunt it. This creature skipped like a sprite towards the pole and swung, arms splayed. The crook of their elbow was so soft as to be frictionless - no grip whatsoever. Like the fey, this person carried with them an unnatural grace which belied their gender, and that was enough to make Alastor’s head tilt. Spinning fast, too fast, the dancer’s back was arched, the neck outstretched, almost floating in space. Lost to the world.

Well, well.

Husk returned. “No running,” he said, “but they didn’t care for the accusation, you know.”

“How terrible for them,” Alastor said. He kept his eyes off the stage long enough to dismiss Husk, who went away with the case and a wave of his tail. Only then did he walk over. The closer Alastor came, the more he noticed. Those narrow hips, with a noticeable concave. Pointed elbows. Prodigious shadows from a set of false eyelashes. The dancer noticed his approach and raised a knowing eyebrow.

“Hey,” this person said.

“What is your name, dear?” Alastor said, reaching into his breast pocket.

“Oh, sweetie,” he said, for it was a he, “ya ain’t seen me around?”

“I’d have remembered.”

He proffered a few bills, which the dancer gracefully accepted and tucked securely in his back pocket.

“Thanks. Call me Angel.”

“Let’s go somewhere private,” said Alastor. “Make me sorry I can’t have you.”

“Oh, a challenge! Right this way,” said Angel, looking over his shoulder as he walked ahead. Another practiced move, drawing attention to the curviness of that shoulder.

o - o - o - o - o

They found a secluded spot behind velvet curtains. Against the walls, there was mid-century booth seating with a V-back design, and yet more neon lights bordered the room, until Alastor waved his hand, dimming the glare. Such a casual display of power put the fear of god into his companion.

“Fuck. How’d ya do that?”

“I move in mysterious ways. Where do you want me, sweetheart?”

“There’s fine.”

Angel casually shrugged out of his bolero and draped it over the end of the seat as Alastor occupied the center of it. The two men could better hear each other in the booth: an AM radio fuzz from Alastor, and a rough-cut New York Italian accent from Angel. Quite crude, really, and hardly feminine. Good. The contrast was intriguing.

“Ya comfortable?” asked Angel, winking, and Alastor felt a tiny gust from his swooshing eyelashes.

“Quite.”

Alastor produced more cash - the only language these people really understood - and sure enough, Angel brightened at the sight of it.

“Thanks.” He tucked it away before Alastor could change his mind. That was to be expected. How many skinflint, handsy customers had Angel dealt with in his time? “Fancy runnin’ inta a guy like you,” Angel continued. “Just my type. Am I your type, sweetie?”

“A girl,” said Alastor. He smiled.

Angel turned to a minuscule digital music player in some sort of charging cradle, and began setting the mood. The music he chose was sedate, simmering, with a low humming bassline. Curling his index finger, Alastor slowed the song just a fraction more. He kept a neutral posture, legs at right angles with the floor.

“When I’m done with ya,” Angel promised, knocking Alastor’s feet further apart, “ya won’t be able to walk.”

The dance began, as before, with hyperbolized feminine allure. Lord, what a spine this boy had, and how he treated it, whipping his body hither and thither like a chain weapon! At Alastor’s insistence, Angel took more time, as much as he could, with slow, deliberate eroticism. It was incredible: this creature dancing so close to him, brushing his downy hair against Alastor like a feather duster.

 _Touch him,_ said the animal firmly leashed in the back of his mind. Alastor delighted in refusing this damned request.

Angel knelt before him, prostrating himself first, like a repentant sinner on the cathedral steps, then coming up to run his hands over Alastor’s suit. Smoothing, tugging, appreciating the fabric. Alastor smiled a relaxed, yet dominant smile. He was proud to be so composed, to enjoy what Angel did and still desist from it. That, of course, was the beauty of these encounters.

Angel peeled the straps of the glimmering leotard from his shoulders; then he rose and fell on his haunches as he played with Alastor’s leg. His fingernails moved under the trouser, then combed over the skin, triggering leg hairs. Angel never broke eye contact. His expression convinced Alastor of a deep, desperate hunger which could so easily be sated. A hunger they shared, if it was true.

_Touch him._

Then Angel stood, turned and took a seat in Alastor’s lap, and he reclined, pushing back with his entire body. Alastor found himself compressed between the seat and Angel. They found a rhythm. Now the animal in him strained hard against the leash. Brittle leather. Bound to snap. One of Angel’s hands reached back to touch his jaw, another was in a dangerous position, drawing circles along Alastor’s thigh.

This seducer, this _homme fatale_ , he knew too well what he was doing. It would be a simple step from sitting with his frustrations to taking them out on this poor boy, but Alastor wouldn’t. Still, it wouldn't hurt to mention them.

“Do you know what I’d like to do to you?” he said.

“I got an idea,” Angel said with a smirk. Indeed, there was something between them, diamond-hard, that made Alastor’s intentions obvious. “I do more than just dance, Rosso. I seen it all,” he said, almost as a point of pride. “There’s nothin’ you can do to me that ain’t already been done.”

So that’s how they were going to play.

Angel’s eyes widened, struggling under the weight of the lashes, as he found himself lifting into space, on his back, arms hanging limp. “I stand corrected,” he said, with the slight gravel texture of an upside-down throat. Their eyes met. “Hey, ya know the rules,” he lightheartedly reminded, “no touchin’.”

“Am I touching you?” Alastor said from three feet away. “Just picture it for me… the two of us in the air, no pesky gravity to contend with. Clutching each other for purchase.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Angel agreed. “Ha… easy to picture when ya got me like this.” The boy was trying hard to enjoy the moment, but there was a certain learned wariness too. His lovely hand lingered near his hip, the trigger finger shaking slightly. Impressive to think he might still have a concealed carry on him. Alastor turned him over with a wave. He watched Angel pull the leotard over his chest, showing more of that downy softness. If Alastor had as many eyes as Angel had arms, to watch them all closely, he’d be a happy man.

“Ya wanna go somewhere _more_ private?” Angel asked on the come-down, reaching out to persuade him. “I’m all yours... for a reasonable price.”

“Thank you, darling, but no. Reality is so often disappointing.”

“Not with me it ain’t. I’m the best there is.”

“You’ve made a study of this?”

Angel laughed. “Honest to God, ya don’t know who I am? Good thing you’re pretty.”

“You’re the pretty one. Are you done making me sorry?”

Remembering the initial challenge, the unabashed Angel crept again into Alastor’s lap, facing him this time. He had hands everywhere: one in his hair, one on his lapel, another burrowing under the hem of the jacket and, most notable of all, a fourth hand, guiding Alastor’s wrist to the small of Angel’s back. That leash was almost at its limit. Angel played with the space between them, implicitly offering his body, to grab, to taste, even, but he could take it away in an instant. Pulling, pushing, perpetuity.

“I got two more hands,” Angel said into Alastor’s ear, biting it.

“Do you now? Where might they be?” Alastor still had his arm around him. He made a fist, but didn’t touch, and the leather of his glove tightened. Their music was coming to a head.

“They only come out when I fight,” said Angel, “or when I fuck.” His weight shifted onto one leg, as he carefully lifted the other, stroking Alastor’s crotch with his knee. That made him sit a little straighter. Damn it, this boy was good. His eyes closed.

“How ‘bout ya take me home, baby, huh? Show me more a’them powers.”

Ah. The hard sell. Tempted as he was, Alastor came to his senses. His eyes opened. “Another time,” he said, straightening his monocle. “Or,” he mused, “do you like me enough to see me in your own time?”

“Please don’t be one a’those.”

“Oh, you’re worth paying for,” he assured him. “I’m just curious what is really motivating you.”

“You’re pushing ya luck, there… What’s ya name, anyway?” Angel sat back on his heels, giving Alastor a little room to adjust his clothing.

“No names. You can think of something to call me, can’t you?” Alastor took a business card from his pocket, gave it to Angel, then tipped a final time. “What was that word of Italian from before?”

“Uh, Rosso. Means redhead.”

A bemused smile. “Fine. This weekend, when I’ve had time to think it over.”

Angel retreated and stood, towering above him once again. “You got a deal,” he said. “Wear a regular tie next time, eh handsome? They’re more fun to play with. I’ll let ya get your bearin’s.”

After pulling the leotard back over his shoulders and retrieving his bolero, Angel swept out of the booth. There was no need to attend to the music player; their perception of time had snapped into place, and the song was long over. Alastor had to stay where he was for a moment. Just as Angel guaranteed, he was quite unable to walk.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone missed the updated story summary: this chapter is pretty explicit, so reader discretion advised!

Alastor had a phone in his office, the lines mediated by a secretary who sat around the corner. She gave him a call.

“Line 1,” she said, “asking for Rosso? He says you’ll know what it means.”

“Yes, thank you, Christine, put me through.” He waited until he heard Angel’s uniquely high-pitched husky tones. 

“So I guess ya don’t got a mobile,” Angel said. “How the fuck do ya conduct business?”

“Forgive me, darling, I prefer the old-fashioned way. How have you been keeping?” 

“Pretty good. So when are we meetin’ up?”

Right to the crux of the matter. Alastor wrapped the phone cord around his finger. “Hm,” he said. “Well, I _had_ been considering it, but such meetings are not second nature to me.”

“Sleepin’ with a guy, or payin’ for it?”

Alastor’s lip snagged between his teeth. So much for discretion. He poked his head out the door to check on Christine - filing her nails, nowhere near the other phone. Still, he chased her away to make copies before getting Angel back on the line. “While we’re on the subject of payment,” he said quietly, “what do you charge?”

“Seven hundred an hour.”

“Good grief.”

“Well, yeah, you’re paying for the PSE. My usual is eight, but I like ya, so…” There was a pause between them. “Still there?”

“Yes. That’s not a problem.” Alastor left his chair for a moment, the phone pinned between his ear and his shoulder, as he searched for his work diary. “Tell me where and when, I’ll make room to see you.”

“Great. Let’s make it an incall, shall we?”

Alastor was led to believe that the finer details of this sort of meeting were never discussed over the phone - but with no police down here, what did it matter? So they went over a few things - the approximate address, what wouldn’t be happening - and hung up on amicable terms. 

It was settled then. Into the spider’s web.

o - o - o - o - o

Alastor turned up - in a necktie - to Angel’s apartment, and carried a duffle bag at his side. He was disinclined to trust wire transfers, even now.

The thought of having his way with Angel on a mattress with a long memory of countless other men was something of a turnoff. There were more preferable scenarios. Alastor imagined fucking him in the great outdoors, somewhere untouched by the scourge of humanity. Out on the far edges of a lake, perhaps: under the falls, water barreling over their heads and shoulders. But even if Alastor knew of a place like this in Hell, some sublime spot of nature, one couldn’t propose such a thing. Angel would never agree to privacy or remoteness, for fear of walking into a trap.

Knock knock.

As he waited, Alastor removed his gloves.

Angel answered his door and welcomed the visitor with a smirk. His eyelashes were not so prodigious today, but his clothes were interesting, to say the least. Wearing a cropped shirt with only one pair of sleeves, the uncovered section of Angel’s trunk with third and fourth arms left bare gave the illusion of nakedness. A nice prelude. There was no sign yet of the final set of arms. Alastor’s eyes dipped lower, taking in a pair of shorts and endless legs.

Something was different. It was the same body without the workplace artifice. It was cleaner, freshly washed and cucumber-scented. Angel even moved differently. 

“Hey, Smiles! Ya made it,” Angel grinned, and turned to remove that shirt and drape it over a chair. “Throw that bag in the corner, an’ shut the door.”

Alastor did so. No sooner had he turned the doorknob securely closed than Angel moved into his personal space. He pulled on the necktie, letting it slip through his fingers, and his pretty mouth played over Alastor’s neck with skill. 

“Steady,” Alastor said, but his head fell back against the door. 

Angel unlatched. “You can touch me now, honey. No boundaries this time.”

“You’re not going to check the bag?”

The boy was amused, but did as suggested. Having confirmed that everything was in order, he returned to the door with fresh energy, clapping Alastor’s hands onto his waist; then, taking apart his tie and collar, Angel teased his tongue against Alastor’s collarbone.

“I knew ya weren’t no cheapskate.”

How long could Alastor’s leash really hold? Then again, why would he have come unless he wanted it to break? The only thing comparable to repressing one's desires, after all, was utter, mind-blowing, limitless indulgence. There was no in-between - one or the other. 

Just ten more seconds, and he would give in. Angel guided his hands, and he felt the plush coating of hair, like the fur of an opossum, but softer. He could feel taut skin underneath, and beneath that, the firm musculature of a professional dancer (and more besides). This creature had depths, and Alastor wanted nothing more than to burrow inside him… see how deep he went. 

“What d’ya need, sweetie, huh? How can I make ya happy?”

Hard to pretend this was unspoiled territory; the room itself was a distraction. With a snap of his fingers, he shorted out the fairy lights over the bed frame and broke the overhead bulb, which startled Angel; then Alastor grabbed him and spun them around, jamming _him_ against the door. Their foreheads pressed together. Alastor grabbed a fistful of Angel-hair and yanked, which seemed to please him. His other hand found his ass. 

“I want this,” he said. 

“Ha. I’ll bet.” Angel reached down and touched his cock, smirking wider as he did so, making it twitch. Mercifully he found the zipper and pulled it down, relieving some of the pressure. Angel went further, rubbing his thumb lightly against the damp spot of Alastor’s underwear. “I’d love to taste ya.”

“Why don’t you?” Alastor said, shrugging off his jacket. “I’m clean.”

“They all say that,” Angel said, and his regret was almost convincing. He was on his knees, careful to avoid any broken glass from the lightbulb. “Tell ya what I will do, though…” 

And for his next trick, Angel took a prophylactic from his pocket, placed it in his mouth and rolled it over Alastor with his lips and tongue, hands held theatrically behind his back. It was interesting to see the boy kneel before him, trying hard to lock eyes from this position, so much that they rolled almost into the back of his head. Alastor enjoyed that level of subservience. Angel was hardly meek, though; he was blatant. He moved fast… and that train of thought was interrupted as Angel covered the rubbery head of his cock with an alarming amount of spit. 

“I got stuff on the nightstand,” he added, and Alastor noticed a tiny strand of saliva connecting them. 

“Go and get it,” Alastor suggested. 

He did, tucking the bottle into his waistband. “Where ya want me, over there or on the carpet?”

Alastor stepped out of his trousers. “I have a better idea. Remember?”

Once again, he curled his fingers and Angel lifted off, rising into the air on his back, and looking just as apprehensive as before. The next part was tricky, but Alastor managed to float himself up as well, joining him in midair. 

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ! I mean, points for creativity…” Angel turned and reached for his shoulders, and once he’d got those, he held tightly. Alastor was gratified to feel two more hands on him than usual.

“There they are,” he said. 

“Honey, ya mind puttin’ us down? Or… wherever, just so’s we ain’t floatin’?”

Alastor pretended to sigh and acquiesce, but really, it _would_ be better to stick to a flat surface, to keep their centers of gravity in one place. They landed on the ceiling, beside the ruined lightbulb, and Angel took a moment to gaze up at his bed. He looked seasick and a little hopeless. Funny, really: a spider should feel at home on his own ceiling.

Alastor rolled atop him and kept him busy as they ravaged each other’s necks and chests, their flesh warming steadily. He couldn’t leave Angel’s fur alone. It gave the lie to an innocence that the creature had long since abandoned. 

“You’re somethin’ else,” Angel gasped, still pulling the necktie as Alastor fully undressed from the waist down, and dropped all unnecessary garments out of harm’s way. “Lemme help ya with that.”

His mood much improved, Angel wiggled out of his shorts and let them fall, straight up. He had hands all over Alastor’s body: two of them exploring, two applying lubricant with careful strokes, another gripping his rear for dear life and the final one gently rubbing the perineum - a much neglected area, in Alastor’s experience. The leash inside him had broken, and the animal was running, baring its pointed teeth.

“Turn over.”

Angel did, looking over his shoulder in that suggestive way of his. Once he was down there on all eights, he pressed his back against Alastor’s front, like he had in the booth. Alastor thought a flurry of indecent thoughts he would never care to vocalize.

“I’m sorry I called you a girl,” he said, and felt how hard Angel himself was. “You’re not, are you?”

A low little sigh. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

Alastor positioned himself and exhaled as he entered Angel from behind - steadily, like a gentleman - and oh God in heaven, the noise he made, the way Angel’s back arched as he slammed a fist against the ceiling. Alastor knew it was pretense, but even if it was, the timing of that wordless expression of pleasure was perfect. He himself was already teased into a froth; this was almost too much to handle.

He stayed still for a moment, and not only to calm down. Alastor had to concentrate to keep their weight acting on the ceiling. Blood flow worked with the force of gravity, not against it, and he couldn’t have it pooling in their brains when it was needed elsewhere. 

Reaching out a hand, he tugged the fur on Angel’s back. Angel responded, rocking forward and back on his stalwart knees, begging to be fucked. He sounded so sweet when he begged.

“Sorry? I didn’t catch that.”

“I said keep goin, honey. God, fuck me hard.” Just like that, this most vulgar experience became spiritual. Every curse, every blasphemy was directed at him, at Alastor; _he_ was the divine body in question. 

Alastor moved in happy silence for a while, raking at Angel’s back and sides. At first he used the weight of the nail, nothing more, then pressed more firmly, cutting (he imagined) little red lines into his flesh. Angel took it gracefully, with barely a hiss, until-

“Haaow,” he said during one such cut; more coping than complaining.

“Attaboy,” Alastor said, a little breathless. Good God, what a thrill it was. He knelt there, head down, watching the effort he made, his cock sliding in and out of Angel’s ass; and then he bent back, craning his neck to look at the dimly-lit carpet overhead. 

Angel began to buck vigorously against him, his breath shortening, his muscle working hard. Two of his hands, five and six, gripped Alastor’s lower thighs, whilst three and four outlined Alastor’s own hands, holding Angel’s hipbones for purchase. He leaned on elbows one and two.

“Fuck me! Dammelo tutto. Fuck me!”

This one liked it rough... or at least pretended to. Fine with him. More than fine. Alastor’s claws carved the soft flesh around Angel’s sides, outlining the ribs. Those helpless moans. The tightening arch of his spine. Alastor yearned to sink his teeth into that tender flesh, ruin that flawless physique. How far would the boy allow this to go?

“I want to bite you,” Alastor said. It was the polite thing, to let him know first.

The remark was enough to slow Angel down. “I guess that’s fine,” he said. “Don’t pierce the skin. Actually, bitin’ through cloth is prob’ly the-”

Quick as a whip, Alastor reeled back, pulling out in the process, and fetched his pocket square. His fingers were tangled with excitement. _Hurry!_ Holding the cloth in place, he bit Angel right on the ass - an organic, barely-restrained force of sexual aggression - and their groans were simultaneous. 

_Harder._

He clenched his teeth together, to satisfy the animal in him, and this time Angel almost protested - almost. A true professional he was. The pocket square fell to earth, along with the waistcoat Alastor now discarded, suddenly hot. He returned to Angel, as before, easing back in. He felt different this time. Either the grease was running dry, or Angel was tense from the biting. Alastor continued to thrust, causing a friction between them that grew more and more pleasant, and his hand drifted to the soft fur of Angel’s loins. It was too much. The thrill of the bite, Angel’s encouraging words, that goddamn grip of his... It was all too much. Angel sensed it.

“That’s it,” he urged. “Come for me, honey.”

And he did. In those two or three seconds of wild surrender, Alastor stuck his hips as far forward as they would go - and the two fell from the ceiling. Angel yelped, became rigid as he prepared for impact - but Alastor just caught them, slowing the descent of their bodies. They hung in the air, then drifted down, and Alastor, clinging tighter than a barnacle, spun them so that he landed on his back with a soft thud. Nobody was hurt; however, Angel’s limbs curled protectively inward; it took him a while to overcome the astonishment of falling. 

“Fuckin’... fuck. Sweetie, what the fuck was that? Huh? We coulda got hurt, y’know?”

“But we didn’t,” Alastor said, swiping at the hair sticking to his brow. His other hand drifted to that slight hollow below Angel’s stomach, the concave he had glimpsed when they first met. His body was quite incredible; he couldn’t help himself.

“OK, er… I’m gonna get off, before that thing stops fittin’ ya.”

Carefully Angel lifted himself away, rubbing the sore spot on his ass. Alastor lay there, one knee bent towards him, looking at the ceiling. A combination of efforts, physical and mental, left him exhausted, almost legless. Eventually, he was able to stand. Angel showed him to the nearest wastepaper basket, to dispose of the condom. That infernal barrier: why did it have to come between them? Alastor was sorry to be deprived of the visual of his ejaculate running down Angel’s leg. 

“Well then,” Angel said, and sat nakedly, matter-of factly, on the bed. “How ya feelin’?”

Alastor laughed. “Oh, can’t complain.”

“What was that, ten minutes? Ya must’ve really needed it. I know that feeling.” 

“Yes. Let me get out of your hair.”

“You’re goin’ already?”

Alastor blinked at him, halfway to picking his clothes off the carpet. “Well,” he said, “I’m sure you value your time-”

“Now waidaminute, Rosso, I ain’t done with you. Fuck, ya paid for the hour, and I ain’t lookin’ forward to makin’ myself pretty for the next greaseball, whoever he is.” He walked over, sliding his hand under Alastor’s shirt, the only article of clothing he still had on. “Like I said,” Angel murmured, “you are somethin’ else. Little scary… but somethin’ else.”

“Only a little?”

“Stay awhile.”

At a time like this - right after he’d climaxed, when Alastor should be least susceptible to flattery - all Angel had to do was say those words, touch those soft fingertips against his skin, and he was convinced.

Thirty-five, perhaps forty minutes more. 

Well, why not?


End file.
